Denali's West Buttress

In response to requests that I present a record of our 1998 ascent of Denali
(Mt.
McKinley) I here endeavor to present a brief accounting of that climb. As
will soon be
evident, writing is not a gift I am endowed with but what was even more
quickly evident
to me, is that with or without endowment, writing is painful. It thus
shares some of the
same feelings as climbing does, and probably is as potentially dangerous.
Not only is it
dangerous for those lofty souls whose writings confront injustice and
provoke change, but
also probably dangerous for me if I had to rely on it for my sole
occupation.

Now, to the mountain and to the climb. Denali, at 20,320 feet, is the
highest peak in North
America and though it is much lower than Mt. Everest, it is colder due to
its position near
the Arctic Circle. Denali is the historical and original name for the
mountain, and for that
reason the one used by climbers, from the first climber, early in this
century, the Rev.
Hiram Stuck, up to present day mountaineers. It is also the official name
of the park that
surrounds the peak itself. Although "McKinley", by a certain twist of
history remains the
mountain's official name, Denali is what almost all climbers and most
everyone in Alaska
calls it.
We named our expedition "Free Burma Rangers" and had a flag made up with
that name
in red above mountains of blue on a field of white. On this adventure, we
also carried an
American, Thai, and Alaskan flag, all of which we planned to carry to the
summit.
And speaking of adventures, this adventure, like most proper adventures,
completely met
Bilbo Baggins' (of Hobbit fame), definition of an adventure, "Nasty, disturbing,
uncomfortable things! Make you late for dinner!"
You the reader will soon see for yourselves the conduct and outcome of our
particular
adventure but first I would like to introduce our team.

There were four of us, Karen Eubank, Mike Stoneham, Pete Dawson, and
myself.
Expedition member support climber- we had only one-Karen Eubank, my lovely
wife, and
cheerful partner in numerous Eubank-Torture-Tours. She said that
mountaineering was
all well and good for three or four days at a stretch, but that living on
ice for weeks at a
time in a small tent with three other men was a bit too scruffy for her.
While she has
climbed the highest peaks in the Alps, Sierras, Cascades, and Tetons, and
has an amazing
amount of power packed into a less than Amazon frame, she still showed no
zeal for a
month on Denali. So, in preservation of matrimonial harmony, she
enthusiastically
volunteered to haul loads as far as the 11,000 ft. camp, and then drop down
and extract
via ski plane. This worked out well as Pete would only have 13 days on the
mountain, and
we needed to get all supplies up as high as possible so that when he came in
he would only
have to haul his personal gear and thus be able to chance the very rapid
ascent he would
have to make in order to summit and be off the mountain by 19 June. Karen
was thus our
small but quite durable sherpani.

Summit Climbers-These we had three of- Mike Stoneham, Pete Dawson, and myself.

Mike Stoneham: Mike is a long-time friend and fellow torture-mate from
Special Forces
days. He is currently a major in the US Army Special Forces and on a teaching
assignment at West Point. Mike is an accomplished climber, skydiver,
cyclist (among
other things has biked across the USA), and all around hard man. More than
these he is a
true and trusted friend whom I respect and love. Mike is of a literary bent
and provided
much needed intellectual and artistic flavor to our team. He presided over
our discussions
on literature great and otherwise. Our selection of books included: the
Bible, Conrad's
"Nostromo", G. Young's amazing account of living with the Lahu peoples of
Northeast
Thailand and hunting man-eating Tigers and Leopards, "Tracks of an
Intruder", a Navy
leadership book (which was good for its humor value), Maile's," A Year in
Provence",
Wallace's "Ben Hur", a few other titles that now escape me, and Pete's high-brow
offering - A hooah novel in the Clancy tradition.

Pete Dawson: Pete is my brother-in-law, and boyhood friend from Thailand
times. Pete is
a nuclear submarine officer in the US Navy. He has been closest friend and
is the charter
member of Eubank-Torture-Tours, and although we have not yet managed to kill
ourselves, it has not been for lack of trying. It was his wife, my sister
Laurie, who
accompanied me into Burma to meet Aung San Suu Kyi and has been a strong
support in
our work for a free Burma. She is also a mountaineer but this time
volunteered to look
after their two children while Pete climbed.

Karen was quite satisfied with the composition and relative sanity of the
team and before
we launched gave us our expedition motto, "CLIMB OR DIE!" (This motto drawn
from
Amy Carmichael's writings on the spiritual life and obedience to God's call,
served us well
and we chose to climb rather than die.)
The expedition members converged from Italy, via the east coast, from West
Point, NY,
and from Thailand. Pete was being re-assigned from a NATO assignment in
Italy through
a Naval Officer school in New England, flying into Alaska on 5 June. Mike
came in from
New York, leaving his very generous wife to maintain the Stoneham patrol
base and its
free spirited troops. Karen and I came from a month of hectic work along
the Thai-Burma
border, as well as inside Burma, hastily throwing gear into duffel bags and
rucksacks,
arriving in Alaska on 29 May. Mike, Karen, and I were hosted above and
beyond call of
duty by Dave, Nanette, and Lydia Pierson in Anchorage. Dave is a top
cyclist (which I
found out personally by trying to draft behind him on what he called a
leisurely bike ride),
while Nanette is a champion marathoner. Much more than this, they are good
friends and
pillars of spiritual support. They head up the youth ministry at Trinity
Presbyterian
Church in Anchorage where we have many good friends. After being feted and
feasted by
the Arnolds, Maxine Johnson, Bill and Sue Bonner, (and later by the
Friedmans), we
realized that we would carry more than the usual supplies and impedimenta up
Denali....we would also be carrying the love and prayers of so many
wonderful people.
As my parents told us upon return from a recent trip, "God has many
wonderful friends
that He like to share with us". Anyway, more friends are better than less
and God has a lot
of good ones.

On Sunday, 31 May, we spoke at 1st Christian Church, Anchorage (about our
work in
Thailand and Burma), and were warmly sent off with their love and prayers. Two
experienced climbers had already died this week on Denali and the
congregation was
concerned. That same day we arrived in Talkeetna and checked in with K2
Aviation who
would be flying us onto the glacier.
Mike, Karen, and I were up early on 1 June and pleasantly surprised to
find that K2 had
put our expedition onto the first plane out! (This was to prove significant
as the weather
deteriorated later in the day eventually shutting down all glacier
landings). Our pilot,
Tom, was a rather quiet and calm yet vigorous man. He reminded me of some
of the
better special operations pilots, and he handled the small Cessna with grace and
confidence. We touched down on the sloping ice of the Kahiltna Glacier at
7000 ft.
elevation. There were 10 to 20 climbers from other expeditions crowding
along the edge
of the "strip". None of them had summitted, but instead had endured the
thrashing by
some of Denali's worst weather in years. We had heard before landing, that
the 1998
season was so far, one of the worst in history, that two lives were lost
already, and that no
one had summitted. As we loaded our equipment onto sleds, (leaving a
three-day supply
of food and fuel, spare stove, and tent buried in the ice), the skies closed
in and it began to
snow. The first part of the route is actually a gradual descent from a side
arm of the
Kahiltna Glacier, down to the main flow itself. Once on the main Kahiltna,
it was up at a
continuous, yet not steep, grade. The packs and sleds were 170 pounds each
for Mike and
I, and around 80 pounds for Karen.

We were carrying a month's worth of food and fuel in addition to all the
snivel gear we
owned and could afford (Due to Mike's procurement skills and the generosity
of 40
Below, we ended up affording the best there is.) To digress briefly on
equipment, we each
carried basically the following on our persons and in our rucksacks: rope,
ice axe,
crampons, harness, prussics, -20 sleeping bag, Marmot 8000m down parka and
pants, full
Gore-Tex suits, two pairs of mitts, double plastic climbing boots, 40 below
overboots,
pile jacket, gloves, glove liners, polypro. underwear light and heavy,
socks, baklava, face
mask, goggles, sunglasses, cameras, sleeping pads, first aide kits, numerous
other sundry
items, two stoves, 1 Wild-Country mountain tent, shovels, ice axes, ice
screws, pickets, a
deadman snow anchor, ropes, belay devices, mechanical ascenders, and various
other iron
mongery. It, along with the duffels full of one-day, three- man packs of
food and 4
gallons of fuel, made quite a pile, and made us feel like some arctic
version of Incas
dragging unreasonable loads to even less reasonable heights.

As we moved that first day, the snow increased, and visibility dropped to
about 150 feet.
Four hours later at 8000 feet, we established our first camp. Here we
improved an
existing tent position and settled in for our first night of the climb,
although night never
really occurs in June on Denali. We ate Spaghetti that Karen made. This
was to be just
about our last non-freeze dried meal of the expedition. The temperature was
only about 0
at the coldest time (2 am), but inside the tent it was not much below
freezing. The second
day (2 June), we began the haul from 8000' to 10,500'. This was a smoker
as the terrain
grew steeper and the route had a rather endless quality. We came to a level
spot at
10,500', at about 6 in the evening and began to dig out a fighting position
for our tent.
"We" is used here in a very general way as Mike and Karen did most of the
work, with
Mike excavating prodigious amounts of snow for the main tent site (deep
enough to
position a medium tank, hull-down), while Karen worked her mastery on her
specialty, the
toilet and stairs. Due to altitude sickness which hit me about the time the
real digging
commenced, I started our two stoves and began to melt snow.
Although I was now in full employ , continued to give helpful comments and
suggestions-not always as enthusiastically received as I would have hoped.

The next day, we had a very short move up to 10,800' which we planned to
establish as a
lower base. From here, Mike and I would carry food and fuel to higher
caches and this
would be the camp that Pete would come to in one long push from the LZ
(landing zone).
On the 4th of June, we woke to snowfall. Mike and I decided to climb with a
cache to at
least 13,500. Into our rucks and onto our sleds we loaded numerous
three-man food
packs and two gallons of fuel. We set off strongly but soon began to feel
the effects of
altitude and the steep slope. We maintained a good pace, however, and in
two hours,
unexpectedly broke through the clouds into bright sunshine. The views were
breathtaking
and the scale of Denali and her surrounding peaks humbled us. It was not
long before we
reached the slopes below Windy Corner and by that time we had each acquired
new code
names: Mike was "Sherpa-boy", for his tireless work and tendency to call me
Bwana,
while he gave me the moniker, "Windstopper" after my amazingly expensive and
amazingly new gloves of the same name. These were bright red North Face
beauties that
indeed stopped the wind, yet whose cost alone almost stopped all thought of
purchase.
Only horrific tales of frozen and gangrenous digits eased the shock of
payment and only
now in the often less than friendly world of Denali, were they truly
appreciated.

We approached Windy Corner and as we traversed its steep slope , our sleds swung
violently down, hanging perpendicular to our bodies and in their own
mindless and
inanimate way attempted to pull us into the abyss below. We dug our ice
axes in and
rounded Windy Corner with out mishap and crossing a large crevasse field
set up our
cache at 13,500 feet. Many of these crevasses could swallow a school bus,
and further
below, some looked ready to handle the whole school!
We then took a few minutes to enjoy the beauty around us, the Kahiltna
Glacier behind
us, the West Buttress rising and sweeping steeply to our left, the great
drop down to the
North East Fork of the Kahiltna to our right, and straight ahead the South
Face of Denali,
and crowning top of the face, 7000 feet above us, it's icy summit. Satisfied
with the work
done and in awe of the stupendous surroundings, we turned back with empty
rucks and
sleds and had a beautiful descent. Along the way, we marveled at the 17,000
ft white hulk
of Mt Foreaker to the south, and then at 12,500', the sheer Father and Son
wall between
the Northwest ridge and the West Buttress. This wall of pink granite and
ice rose up
massively and vertically to the black argillite of Denali's North Peak.

Once down to the top of Motorcycle Hill, we paused again to gaze at the
stark beauty of
the Peters Glacier thousands of feet below us. Below and beyond that
glacier and the
mountains that guarded it, stretched tundra and shimmering rivers and lakes.
Then we
kick-stepped down, down, down past the 11,000 ft camp where at least 10
expeditions
were massed on down to 10,800' where Karen had hot drinks and chow laid on.
This day, was for me, one of the highlights of the climb. As the weather
turned out to be
perfect we climbed strongly and well, and we managed to put 150 pounds of
food and fuel
up high. Coming down we both felt light and free and fully able to
appreciate the grandeur
around us. Best of all, was seeing my wife and the much improved camp when we
returned. Having her serve us excellent food and hot beverages was a
tremendous help
after a long day of climbing and made our camp seemed even home-like.

The following day (June 5), we had planned as a rest day and did just that.
We melted
snow, ate, read and slept. This day the snow also fell and fell heavy all
day. There was
however, one event that should be noted , June 5th was Karen and my fifth
wedding
anniversary, and we celebrated it in fine style. We dined on the finest our
supplies could
offer and finished with a reading of Proverbs 31-this was for Karen.
Having Mike along
to celebrate our anniversary was certainly novel and we only were missing
his wife Ellen
to have a proper double date. ( Ellen, like Laurie was also taking care of
their two children
but we missed her cheerful company and unmatched culinary skills. Due to
her absence
we lacked the Japanese treats and other delectables that she is known for.
However, upon
my request she had sent a large bag of chocolate-chip and walnut cookies
with Mike)
Also on this day, Mike and I began what was to be an expedition-long
discussion of things
theological. We started each day with a short prayer and enjoyed long
discussions on
God, God's will for us, our choice to obey, the value (or lack thereof) of
prayer, and our
admitted doubts and perplexities.

June 6th came with increasing wind and more snow. The plan this day was for
me to
carry one more load of food and fuel up high, and for Karen and Mike to go
back down to
the 7000 ft LZ. Karen would fly out on the plane that brought Pete in, and
Mike and Pete
would then commence the long climb up to our 10,800 foot camp. This plan
hinged on
good weather for a plane to bring Pete in as well as Pete being able to push
all the way
from 7,000 ft to the 10,800 camp in one day. This climb normally takes at
least three days
and when we had earlier told another expedition of our plan, they exclaimed,
"that's
impossible, you can't do it! The Irish team pushed to 9,700 in one day and
they looked
like they were going to die." But, we didn't have any other options because
of Pete's
limited time on the mountain. We did, however, have some things going for
us. One,
Pete's ability to acclimate amazingly rapidly (once climbing Mt. Blanc,
15,800, in less than
24 hours with no effect). And the fact that Pete is extremely strong and of
pit-bull like
determination. If convinced something needed to be done, then there is no
stopping him.
Some may consider these attributes alarming, but to our merry band, they
created a
familial bond.
Two, Mike would be leading him back up and as he too was of similar
pit-bull stock, as
well as being an excellent navigator - they could pull it off. Mike had
volunteered to have
the honor of picking up Pete and leading him back. This was a big help to
me as I do not
acclimate well and could use every additional day at altitude.

The morning of the 6th, I prepared a load of food and fuel to take up as
high as I could
while Mike and Karen roped up for the descent. They left in increasing
winds and
snowfall. I kissed Karen goodbye and gave Mike a gentlemanly shake of the
hand, said a
prayer, and once they were down the slope and out of sight, I shouldered my
ruck and
began to climb up towards Motorcycle Hill. This hill is a steep slope that
leads up to the
top of the divide between the Kahiltna and Peters glaciers. From there the
route climbs up
over squirrel point (named after an off-route rodent that survived for a
while on climbers
caches). At the base of this slope the winds had picked up to 40-50 mph. A
Swiss team
was already 100 feet up the slope burdened with full packs and heavy sleds.
The wind had
stripped away all the snow and the face was now hard ice. As I
front-pointed by the
Swiss, I could see they were having a difficult time with their much heavier
loads on this
now treacherous slope. At the top of Motorcycle Hill, another expedition
huddled
together in what was now at least a 60 mph wind. Pieces of snow and ice
were flying
through the air making it very difficult to see and climbing up against the
wind made the
ascent higher not only more difficult, but more painful. In spite of this,
I felt strong and
acclimated, and very happy to be free of the horrible sled. I also felt
very happy that I was
free to go up instead of down and was again grateful for Mikes hard work.

I passed a Polish expedition at 12,300. They were struggling upward in the
fierce wind
and had stopped to clear ice from their goggles. Once at 12,500 I came to
the final
expedition I would see that day. This was a group of Americans who had
their shovels
out, and with these, along with their ice axes, were attempting to hack a
hole in the side of
an ice slope. Feeling still strong, I proclaimed probably a bit too
cheerfully, "great day,
huh" (because of the wind, I had to shout this even though I was face to
face with them).
They looked at me with incomprehension and I could see the pain and worry
etched on
their faces.
I found out later that the winds at the top of this plateau were over 90
mph and Windy
Corner was living up to its name. No one was going any further that day and
as I was
alone, unroped, and with no belay, I thought it would be unwise to continue,
especially if
the clouds descended and a white-out was joined to the already fierce winds.
Even
climbers roped together had perished attempting Windy Corner in less
serious weather.
So I hacked out a hole in the ice, buried my cache, and with an empty ruck
began the
descent to the 10,800 camp. I'd only gone 100 feet when clouds closed in
and swirling
snow, mixed with driving winds reduced visibility to zero. By the time I
was at 10,900 all
previous tracks were covered and I could not see the route down. I knew the
general
azimuth from the 11,000 ft camp to our camp at 10,800, but also remembered
the large
crevasses on each side of our camp making even a 1 degree drift in either
direction
unhealthy. So I followed the azimuth as painstakingly as I could. When my
altimeter
showed 10,800 I stopped as I was at the altitude of our camp and decided to
wait in hope
that I might catch a glimpse of the camp through the blowing snow. Within
about 5
minutes, was a small break in the clouds and I saw the camp.

I waded through now knee deep snow to find the tent almost completely buried
in fresh
snow. As I dug the tent out, I wondered how Mike and Karen were faring on
the trip
down. I chastised myself for not convincing them to carry down snowshoes
and thought
that I had exhibited a poor piece of leadership. For all my years of
climbing that I could
be so stupid angered me, but it was too late. I decided that the only
thing I could do was
that if I heard a plane come in the next day, I would drag all our snowshoes
down to the
LZ in a sled. With them Mike and Pete would at least have a chance of making
the trip
back in one day. However, I thought that there was no way a plane would get
into the
glacier in this kind of weather and that Mike and Karen would be waiting at
least a few
days at the LZ. So, resigning myself to a long wait I began to shovel the
tent clear of
accumulated snow. As I had to shovel every two hours this kept me more than
occupied.

The winds now were blasting around our little camp but what I didn't know
was that
lower down the weather had not yet deteriorated so badly. Mike and Karen
had sped
down to the LZ only to find there were no planes coming in. Meanwhile, back in
Talkeetna, Pete was in the K2 office persistent in his pleas for a flight
in. No one would
fly in this weather was the reply but one K2 pilot, Tom (who had flown us in
originally
and who was soon to be our hero) said, "yea, I'll fly". So Pete and Tom
hurried out to the
plane and took off for the Kahiltna. As they landed, the storm had almost
descended to
the LZ and things had become a bit more sporting. But Tom put the plane
down on the
ice, Pete jumped out, and Karen, with Mike's help raced to the plane and
urged on by
Tom who yelled, "Hurry, we have to go right away." Mike threw her rucksack
in, Pete
gave her a quick hug and she lept in the plane. Tom immediately revved the
still-running
engines and the plane shot down the glacier bouncing over the ice on its
skis and then was
airborne. This was the only plane that came in that day, and the last plane
to land for four
days.

Mike helped Pete organize his gear and load the sleds and they set off up
the glacier. As
the storm grew worse, visibility decreased to almost zero. At one point,
after about seven
hours of movement, and confronted with ever-growing winds and an inability
to see their
route, they began to excavate a snow cave for use as a shelter. When Mike
had almost
completed digging the cave, there was suddenly a clearing and they could see
they were
indeed on route, and had made relatively good progress. So rechecking their
bearings,
they set off in hopes that they would soon meet me in the tent at 10,800'.
Minutes after
they resumed their climb the storm closed in again with now increased fury.
Back at the
tent, at about 4 in the morning, I had just crawled into my sleeping bag
after shoveling out
the tent and I thought I was dreaming when I heard, "hey Dave, get out of
the rack!".
When this call was repeated, with the addition of, "you lazy slug", I knew
it was no
dream and with amazement and joy scrambled to make room for Pete and Mike. They
were encrusted from heat to toe in ice and looked whipped. I got out of the
tent so they
could organize themselves and get into their bags. They had accomplished
an amazing
feat, especially in the current weather conditions. Because of Tom's
willingness to fly and
Pete and Mikes ability to navigate and make fast progress, we now were well
situated for
the second phase of our climb.

The storm lasted three more days and for the first two, Pete and Mike mostly
rested while
I cooked and melted snow. Also, due to the rest they needed, I did most of
the initial
shoveling to keep the tent clear and thus was responsible for the first near
disaster of the
trip. As I was shoveling around the tent, a big gust of wind swept the
blade of the shovel
against the tent tearing the fabric. This we immediately repaired but were
left wondering
if our now weakened tent would disentigrate under worse conditions. Mike
later made me
feel a lot better about this by placing his ice axe through the front
vestibule creating a third
and unwelcomed entry. This was also repaired. On 9 June, the storm was
still with us,
but the winds were not as high. Pete and Mike were feeling strong and we
were all ready
to leave what we called the "ice-swamp". The inside of the tent smelled
worse than most
locker rooms, and even newly arrived Pete was beginning to lose his
freshness. When he
had first entered the tent , in his relatively clean clothes, he was quite
horrified at our
six-day old stench, and more than once, reproached us. But it didn't take
long for him to
drop to our standard of living and by now, everything was damp and worse
than that, the
cherry pie that Pete had brought was long since gone. It was time to go.

We cached our snow shoes and three days of food and fuel, and then each
carrying a ruck
and pulling a fully-laden sled, we climbed up Motorcycle Hill. We broke out
of the clouds
at 13,000 and finally escaped from the storm. Pete was quite smoked by this
movement
as he had only been on the mountain 3 days, whereas Mike and I had been up
for 6 and
had already climbed to 13,500 earlier. Also, to make sure that Pete didn't
feel cheated by
missing out on our earlier carries, we gave him the heaviest load. We set
up camp in a
prepared tent site recently vacated by the Polish expedition. They had been
trapped four
days here by the storm. They were very interested in our "Free Burma "
expedition flag
and voiced strong support for the democracy movement there. Having lived under a
dictatorship, they felt deeply the value of freedom and knew the sacrifice
it demanded.
Their expression of support was very moving to me. The next day we hauled
all our gear,
plus what we cached earlier, in what amounted to about 130 lb. per person to
14,200
where we once again established camp. The following day, 11 June, was a
rest and
acclimation day, where Pete made a rather gourmet concoction of butter fried
tortillas
with melted Jack and Provolone cheese. Mixed in with the cheese was
shredded jerky and
over this was spread a generous amount of cream cheese. A couple of dashes
of Grey
Poupon and Tabasco sauce completed this masterpiece and we each our fill.
The sun
shone the whole day and we studied the route up to 16,000 ft. while our
sleeping bags and
down gear dried out.

Twelve June was snowy and windy and of the 10 or so expeditions at 14,200,
we were the
only ones who set out. Our mission was to carry a seven day load of food
and fuel to
16,200 where we would cache it. We would then descend and spend another
night or two
at the 14,200 camp acclimating. We climbed through knee deep snow that
smoked us
until we got to 15,000 feet. There the face steepend sharply and we
attached our
ascenders to beginning of the fixed rope. There is about 1000 feet of fixed
rope on the
West Buttress headwall put in place by the guide services. Everyone uses it
and is
grateful. It is however, an absolute smoker and not a lot of fun with full
packs. The
headwall seemed near vertical in places and the climb was made significantly
more
sporting by the high winds that lashed us. Bits of ice and powder snow were
being
whipped through the air, making it very difficult to see and making this
part of the route
unpleasant. It was on the fixed ropes that Pete received his Denali
codename, the "Claw".
Every hundred feet or so a fixed rope was anchored by an ice picket and tied
off, so at
every anchor point we had to detach our ascenders and re-attach them on the
rope above
the anchor. Pete could not open the gate on his ascender without taking his
mitts off
which meant his gloved hand began to look like an ice-coated birds claw by
the time we
were only half way up the face. He persevered, however, and at 16,200 we
topped out on
the West Buttress. We cached our supplies and made a hasty rappel back
down the fixed
ropes in brutal conditions.

We took another day off at 14,200. and then in bright sunshine and perfect
weather, we
set out for 16,200 on the 14th of June. We recovered our cache at on the
top of the ridge,
and on the north slope of the Buttress, dug out an old snowcave. This cave
had been cut
out of the ice years before by the famed Alaskan guide, Brian Okonek, and
although filled
with snow, his work made ours much easier. The cave was big enough for us
three and
our gear, but emptied out onto the steep north slope of the Buttress. This
was the same
slope where three climbers had recently fallen to their deaths. Two had
died two days
before we started climbing, and the other had fallen to his death in the
same storm that had
trapped us at 10,800'. We built a small revetment around the entrance to
our cave and
placed our own fixed rope from the cave back up to the top of the ridge. We
felt like
three little birds perched as we were in the entrance to our cave/nest. But
a colder nest
would be hard to find and although inside our icy hole we were safe from any
storm, it
was not exactly a relaxing place. As Mike had a bad headache coming up, and
as I wanted
to be cautious about my own and Pete's acclimatization, we spent the 15th of
June resting
and melting snow.

For those interested in things of a more personal nature, such as our
relationship on the
expedition, I must report that we had no major conflicts or arguments except
for a
uncooperative lighter that received a furious, yet well-deserved thrashing
followed by its
ejection from the camp by Mike. Cooking was also often a battle of
endurance, that is, he
who could stay in his bag the longest, could probably be ensured of someone
else finally
getting up and starting the stove, at which point, the cook would toss bits
of insults and
sarcasm back into the tent. If that failed, the cook would eventually
devise some
necessary task which was impossible to do alone and shame the bag-bound ones
into
action. Although Pete may have carried heavier loads than anyone, he also
was the
hands-down champion of sleeping bag endurance.
In terms of outlook on the climb I think we all viewed the whole
experience with
gratitude. It was a wonderful thing to be high in the mountains of Alaska,
surrounded by
majestic beauty, with such fine friends. In terms of the climbing itself, I
viewed it a bit like
a campaign of war, with the need for careful and deliberate action following
a coherent
strategy. Although surrender was not a Ranger word, I was also unwilling to
rush up the
mountain, possibly compromising safety or incurring serious
altitude-sickness that could
spell the end of the climb and I wanted to actually have a chance to enjoy
the climb every
now and then. There were moments of enjoyment or fun, although to quote a
fellow
Denali climber, "the whole thing is kind of like fun, only different".
It was not too difficult to have agreement on climbing strategy, but Mike
did question my
caution at times, while Pete who was much less acclimated questioned only
whether or not
we were going to continually give him the heaviest loads. I felt our plan
was not too
cautious, but was a carefully calculated strategy to maximize success. I had
been thinking
in detail about even during my treks inside Burma, months earlier. ( And in
terms of
Burma, during one particular mission, during which the possibility of ambush
by a
Burmese Army patrol was real, I remember thinking how terrible it would be
never to see
my wife again and to miss out on climbing Denali. Such was my
pre-occupation with
Denali. A pre-occupation which I enjoyed as I find that there is almost as
much joy in
planning an adventure as going on one.),...now back to the climb. Mike and
Pete may
have done it a little differently, but I respected their willingness to
readily agree even
though their own strategies may have differed by a day or a certain
placement of a camp.
We reached all our decisions by consensus and from the beginning agreed that
we would
only do what all felt right doing.

Early morning on the 16th we pulled on all of our poly-pro and Gore-Tex
layers as well as
overboots. We then put on our 8000 m. down parkas and emerged from the cave
like fat
caterpillars. We roped up and with crampons biting into the hard ice, began
the climb up.
We soon reached the crest of the ridge and turning to the east climbed for
the end of the
West Butress at 17,200. From there it would still be 3,000' to the summit.
It was around 7 in the morning and bitterly cold. Pete carried our only
ruck for this
summit attempt, and in it we had our three down pants, a spare pair of
mitts, and a first
aid kit. Inside our jackets and next to our bodies we each carried two
water bottles as
well as some candy bars. Our plan was to rotate the pack every 1000 feet.
As we did
throughout the climb, I was at the front of the rope, Pete was in the
middle, and Mike was
at the end. It took us less than two hours to climb up to 17,200 where we
knew there
were at least 4 expeditions camped. 17,200 is the usual high-camp from which
expeditions launch their summit bids. We had chosen to go for the summit
from the lower
16,200 camp because we thought we would be better acclimated, (the climb
high-sleep
low program), and we would not have to haul our loads any higher. Also, we
knew that
even if we were not the most skilled team on the mountain, we had good
endurance and
were fast and should make use of these strengths. Much to the chagrin of
Pete and Mike,
we became especially fast whenever there was an expedition climbing in front
of us. For a
probably less than sufficient reason, it was always a good thing to me when
we passed
these teams up and again had the horizon to ourselves.

The climb along the ridge was the most spectacular of the route. With great
exposure off
both sides, yet never exceeding class 3 or 4 in difficulty, it is an alpine
classic. When we
got to the 17,200 camp, we were amazed to find that none of the expeditions
had moved..
We looked up at 18,000 ft Denali Pass above us and saw why. Snow was
streaming over
the pass and the winds there were howling, obviously making climbing not
only more
difficult, but dropping the temperatures well below minus 50. As we passed
through the
encampment (which is in a shallow dip between the top of the West Buttress
and the
Northwest Face below Denali pass), a climber from another expedition yelled,
"you'll
never make it, the winds are too high!" But we were committed, gave no
response, and
kept on moving. Another climber then yelled, "if you make it to the top of
the pass, wave
so we can see what it is like up there." From 17,200 to the pass is not
steep, only 30 to
40 degrees yet because of the altitude and conditions on the face, this part
of the West
Buttress route has seen the most fatalities. It took us two more hours to
reach the pass
where we were almost blasted off our feet by the wind.. Hunching over, we
took off our
sunglasses and put on our goggles, and cinching down our hoods continued our
ascent up.
To our amazement, there were four rope teams behind us. It seemed our
going gave
them the confidence they needed or more likely, our freshly kicked steps
were too great a
temptation. However, all but one of these rope teams, made an abrupt about
face upon
reaching the pass and it's winds. The one rope team that continued was led by a
professional guide named Marty Schmidt whom we had met earlier at 16,200.
He was a
world class climber with ascents of Everest, K2, and numerous other
difficult peaks. He
was guiding a Brazilian and for the first time we were passed. I was more
than happy to
follow as between 18,500 and 19,500 the snow drifted up to two feet deep in
places.
However, the wind blew so strong, and at times visibility became so bad due
to wind
driven snow, and our own altitude induced tunnel vision, that I quickly lost
the tracks and
had to make my own. Mike had carried the pack after Pete's turn was up at
17,200 and
he had given it to me when we hit Denali Pass at 18,000. I was now carrying
it. Although
the winds were strong, and our faces and goggles coated with blown ice, we
were never
thrown off our feet and continued to make progress. I thought that as long
as we could
move upward, we could make the summit, even if we had to crawl. We climbed an
undulating series of ice humps and minor ridges up to the Archdeacon's
Tower, a rock
pinnacle at 19,500. Up to now, we had been taking one step and pausing for
two breaths
and then another step. This rate of motion did not exactly make us feel we
were eating up
the miles!

Once at the plateau at 19,500, we could see directly in front of us, the
steep northwest
face of the summit headwall, and knew we were only 700 feet below the top. Here
caching the ruck we took a sip from our canteens and looking at each other
with the
feeling of confidence and realization that barring any accident, we would
summit, we
started again to climb. It was at this time, that I wondered where Marty
and his client had
gone, for if not actually catching them, we should at least be now seeing
them on the face
no matter how fast they went. They were no where to be seen. The face was
steep and
battling continual wind, our climbing slowed to 6-7 breaths for every step.
The winds had
not abated and once reaching the top of the ridge there were hurricane force
blasts. The
top of the ridge at this point was only a few inches wide and off the south
side the slope
was very steep, dropping over 10,000 ft. to the glaciers below. In good
conditions it
would have been possible to climb along the very top of the ridge with a few
traverses out
on the northwest face. But with the high winds and icy conditions we were
reduced to
crawling, sometimes along the ridge top, sometimes traversing crab-like on
the northwest
face. We smoked ourselves pretty good in sinking our axes in for security
and pulling
ourselves along as we fought against the wind. At this point, it blew at
around 80 mph.
After a hundred feet of crawling along the ridge, we were able, once again,
to stand and
climb more normally. There was no question now of turning back, the summit
was within
reach and all we had to do was not give up and pay the price it was exacting
this day. We
climbed over a series of ice humps and cornices including one tremendous one
that Mike
later told me he'd hoped was the summit.

Finally the summit itself came into view about 70 feet ahead. I took the
last steps to the
top and digging in my crampons, turned and spread out my arms and yelled,
"This is it!
We did it!" Pete and Mike could not hear me and as they climbed up to the
top, I pulled
in the rope. The wind was so strong, we had difficulty standing on the
summit. We did
however, have a good view of all the terrain below us. The mountains,
glaciers, tundra, of
Alaska unfolded beneath us. Jagged ice-capped peaks clawed up at us through the
swirling mists. Great white mountains reared before us and shining ice-falls
writhed and
cascaded below. Far below and beyond these, meandered powerful glaciers and
issuing
from these glaciers the great rivers of Denali....the Kahiltna,, the Yentna,
the Tonzona,
Tatina, to the south and west, the Ruth, and Hidden Rivers to the east, to
the north and
west the Herron, Slippery and McKinley and finally to the northeast, the
mighty Toklat.
It was exhilarating yet a victory that we knew was not complete; we still
had to get
down. The three of us embraced on the summit, I shouted a short prayer of
thanks and
we took turns taking summit photos. I had brought three cameras (2 print, 1
slide), but
due to the the severe conditions and frostbite that had now inflicted each
of us, Mike and I
only managed a couple of shots a piece.(Despite our best efforts we each
frostbit our
noses and cheeks, but so far, our fingers and toes were ok.)
I knew the descent would be more dangerous due to the conditions and our
own fatigue.
It was now 5 p.m. and we had been climbing hard for 10 hours. I thought of
my wife and
told myself, "be hard, Ranger!", and led down off the summit.

The final part of the ridge leading off the summit does not go in a straight
line but rather in
a curve so that when you leave the summit you are walking an arc along the
top of the
ridge. I led the rope out along this arc to the end of its curve. Pete was
still on the
summit untangling the rope and I stopped to wait for him directly across the
curve.
Because of this curve in the ridge, the rope did not run directly along the
ridge but hung
over a chasm between Pete and I. When Pete began to move, I saw that he was
following
the direct line of the rope rather than the ridge. Three more steps and he
would walk off
the south face. I yelled with all my strength and punched the air yelling
at him "go right,
go right", "get on the ridge". At 20,320 ft, talking, much less yelling,
was absolutely
exhausting. And as I gasped for air, I realized he did not understand me
and was now
only one step from walking off the face. At that moment three things
happened, I jumped
off the ridge top and sunk my axe into the northwest face yelling, "move
right!", at the
same time so that even if he walked off the face, I could possibly hold his
fall on the
opposite side of the ridge. The second thing that happened is that Pete
hesitated, and the
third thing that happened was Mike, behind Pete, realizing what was
happening, grabbed
his shoulder. Pete then realized what had almost happened and then why it
had happened
- he could not see. Wind driven ice had covered his goggles inside and out
and he was
almost blind. Pulling his now useless goggles off, he climbed down to me.
We shortened
our ropes so that we were close together and began to inch our way down the
ridge. It
was very tedious as we had to deeply sink our ice axes with every step in
order to secure
our descent.

I had wondered what had happened to Marty and his client since we went to
the summit
and had not seen any sign of them. I assumed that most likely the client
had slipped on the
steep ridge and pulled Marty down. I felt very sorry for them, yet knew
there was
nothing we could do, for if they fell, they could be 10,000 ft. below us and
would be
surely dead. After what seemed like an eternity we came to the point of the
ridge where
we left the ridge and dropped down the face. Once on the plateau below the
Archdeacon's Tower, Mike picked up the rucksack and we pulled out our water
bottles,
only to find that even under our heavy down jackets, they had frozen. Up to
this point, I
had felt very strong and after reaching Denali pass earlier, sure of our
success. But from
here at 19,500 all the way down to our ice cave at 16,200', I felt weak and
altitude sick.
Although we all felt spent we moved well together and reached 17,000 ft.
at about 10:30
that night. Walking up to the tent sites at 17,200 I was surprised to see a
lone figure
dressed in full down, standing and looking at us. As we drew closer, I
realized it was
Marty and that he was quite obviously alive. We embraced each other and I
said, "man, I
thought you were dead," to which he replied, "I thought you were dead." I
said, "what
happened?" He then told me that because of the conditions he had turned
around at
19,000 and due to the blowing snow, we had never seen him pass. He said
that he saw us
go on, looking very determined and soldier-like, and that he thought then
we were
probably going to make it. But after the hours had gone by, and the winds
increased he
began to worry for us. Then, from out of his jacket he pulled a bottle of
freshly boiled
tea. This touched me deeply as melted water was one of the most precious
and hard won
commodities on any expedition. That he had taken the time - 1 to 2 hours-
and used his
own limited fuel to make this tea for us was overwhelming and I felt a great
love for this
tough yet caring man. While we were sharing the tea, Brian Okonek, the
Alaskan guide,
also came up to us (he would be leading an expedition on a traverse of
McKinley and they
had just established their high camp at 17,200). We visited briefly and we
continued our
descent arriving back at the ice cave before midnight.

Mike graciously made soup which we drank inside our bags and then he gave
our final
prayer of the day...a short and heartfelt thanks to God for His creation,
our friendship, and
the climb itself. We woke at 6:00 am but it wasn't until 8 that we began
our final descent.
Carrying everything , including cached supplies, we clipped into the fixed
ropes and began
to work our way down. For the only time of the entire climb, my crampon
came off.
When it did, I lost traction and was flipped upside down. With the weight
of my pack
pulling me backwards, it took an effort to right myself and put on the
crampon, all the
while hanging on the fixed line with the other hand. We descended 200 more
feet and my
crampon came off again. This time, Pete came down and helped me put it back
on, much
to my gratitude. Throughout the climb, we were able to help each other and
it was a good
feeling to be able to climb with very strong and competent partners. I am
grateful for their
courage and toughness and even more so, for their devotion. I too was
devoted to Pete
and Mike and we all knew that if anything was to happen to anyone of us, we
would carry
the other off the mountain, or die trying. These were also the kind of men
who didn't
confuse wisdom with suffering. Like most good things in life, climbing a
big mountain
like Denali will entail much suffering and it is at the height of this
suffering that people
often begin to confuse wisdom with the price of suffering that must be paid
to summit.
There are times, of course, when a summit is an impossible, or foolish
gamble. The
discernment of these times will be different for each person. However, long
before true
danger is upon us, we are often tempted to rationalize quitting and couch our
rationalization in terms of wisdom and mature decision making. What made
Pete and
Mike such good partners was that they knew the price that must be paid and
have a very
difficult time quitting. And certainly suffering alone is not a good enough
reason to quit.
At the same time, they have no death wish, and love their families.
Mountains are not
their God. These things made us a good team and our comraderie made it
fun.....or
something close to that.

Once back at 14,200 the cache was dug up. Pete and Mike made some food and we
decided we would at least get around Windy Corner that day. However, by the
time we
had descended to our final cache at 11,000 ft , we were all feeling strong
and although it
was midnight, there was, of course, light and the weather was perfect.
Again, I led out
with a sled behind me, followed by Pete who kept tension on my sled to keep
it from
slamming into me, and by Mike at the end, who controlled two sleds, Pete's
and his own.
During the climb, I had led and the price I paid for this was a bit of extra
effort in step
kicking although there were only a few days when this was much of a factor.
Now, as we
descended, I had it easiest. Pete and Mike controlled the three sleds while
I strolled down
the glacier. Every now and then, Pete would lose concentration and let the
sled bang into
my ankles. This happened only a couple of times, each resulted in me being
knocked to
the ice with a good laugh for Pete and Mike. But it was a small price to
pay for having my
hands free and having Pete and Mike manage the sleds. As we descended the
glacier, all
was still around us. There wasn't a cloud in sight and we were surrounded
by hundreds of
towering, ice-covered peaks and hanging glaciers. Over our heads, and
moving in a
circle around us, was the sun, which 'set" briefly from 1:00 am to 2:00 am.
But even so,
it never really got dark. The sky changed from light to royal to a deep,
deep blue.
Alpenglow lit up the peaks changing them from white to orange to firey red,
then back to
orange again. The ice we walked on also changed color...from dazzling white
to steel blue,
to grey.
Down, down, down the glacier we moved gaining speed with every mile
traveled and
every foot of elevation lost. At 4:00 a.m., 20 hours after we had left our
ice-cave at
16,200, we arrived at the LZ. We reconfigured our equipment for the
aircraft and pulled
out our bags at 5:00 a.m. for an hour's sleep. Later that morning, K2
Aviation was
radioed and we heard our bird was inbound.

At 8:00 am I was amazed to see Marty Schmidt and his client with sleds
behind them
steaming into camp. They had summitted the day after us and in a non-stop,
36 hour
movement, had gone to the summit, back down to their high camp and then
descended all
the way to the DZ. That was an amazing accomplishment, and I thought "man,
this guy is
the real thing". We chatted until our aircraft came in and then Pete, Mike
and I loaded the
ski equipped Beaver and took off for Talkeetna. The skies were clear and
the sun was
shining brightly. It was a perfect exfil with views of Denali, and the
entire Alaska range
below, behind, and above us as we flew out. In Talkeetna, we sorted and
cleaned gear
and began a post-ranger-school chow plan. The next day as we rode back to
Anchorage,
a storm blew in that would eventually trap five injured climbers near the
summit of Denali
for 5 days. Thankfully, the storm killed no-one, yet it would have if not
for the discipline
and endurance of the trapped climbers and the courage of the rescue teams
and pilots who
assisted them. We were fortunate to have made the summit as this year was
one of the
worst on record with very few successful summits. We were grateful for the
breaks in the
weather we did have, but most of all, for the opportunity to have climbed on
a beautiful
peak with good friends.